


Out of Gas — and Hope

by amaruuk



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23499586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: Missing scenes for Firefly, Episode 8, "Out of Gas"Mal started to lean forward, saying, "Here's the thing—" He froze. "Ow." He carefully rested back again, and breathed delicately for a minute. "Here's the thing, Simon," he continued at last. "You all deciding to turn around just then was uncanny fine timing."They stared at each other. Finally Simon said, "What are you really saying … or asking? If, that is, you are saying or asking something."Mal drained his mug. He lowered it to his lap and held it laxly between both hands. "Little sister—she have anything to do with that decision?"
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Out of Gas — and Hope

The shuttle was cold. 

Its interior was dimly lit, the only sound the hush of engines running a notch above minimal thrust. The low temperature was uncomfortable but not bitter, not as cold as _Serenity_ when they had abandoned her. Not as cold as the shuttle would be when its fuel supply was inevitably depleted.

Simon sat in the pilot's seat, angled slightly so he didn't have to stare at the black emptiness before them. Beside him, his sister gazed avidly at that emptiness, her face rapt, her eyes wide and shining. Close behind the pilots' seats, Wash sat cross-legged on the floor beside his still unconscious wife Zoë, his head bent, lips moving soundlessly. The stretcher upon which she lay was crammed into the space between the bulkhead and the forward cockpit compartment. The cargo bay was sealed off, all life support restricted to the forward section of the ship.

Simon set his encyclopedia down next to the seat pedestal. It seemed pointless attempting to read the latest medical studies and news recently downloaded from the Cortex. He had not asked Wash how long they could expect to survive, but he could guess that it was measured in hours rather than days. 

And for Mal, alone on _Serenity_ , it was probably only minutes. If he was even still alive.

He contemplated taking a reading of Zoë's vitals. From here he could see that she had not stirred, the blankets cocooning her rising and falling slowly but steadily. There was no change. But he needed something to do—even if it expended energy and breath, increased his respiration and heart rate.

River twitched, a tiny head-to-toe spasm; but it caught Simon's attention. Her hand lay lightly on her chest, just beneath her left breast. She was gazing down at herself with a look of mild surprise. He started to ask her what was wrong, but hesitated when her head fell to one side, eyes unfocused but her expression intent, as if she were listening to a voice he couldn't hear. She held this pose for almost a minute. Alarmed now, Simon started to reach out to her, saying her name. But, as if following the instructions of that inner voice, she swiveled sharply in her seat and fastened her gaze on Zoë. Simon, his own hand still extended, looked, too. River spoke, her words barely audible. So softly, in fact, that Simon thought he had imagined them.

But then Zoë's eyes opened.

Simon twisted out of the pilot's seat and put a hand on Wash's shoulder. "Wash," he said. "Let me—"

But Zoë said sharply, "Why are we in the shuttle?"

"Zoë!" Wash's head jerked up. "Baby!"

"Wash," Simon said with calm authority, "let me examine your wife." He glanced back at River as they changed places. She had turned away again, once more entranced by the terrible beauty of space. She might not have had that strange episode; she might not have spoken those two words that were more rumor than sound. Wash crouched close behind him, a hand on Zoë's leg, saying with quiet anguish, "Zoë, honey, you're awake."

"Why are we—?" she began, but Simon held up a hand. "Let me do my job, Zoë, and then Wash can answer your questions."

Zoë ignored him. "Where are the others?" She struggled to sit up. Her face crumpled as she ran into the sharp shock of pain. She gasped, caught her breath, her eyes large and angry as she looked up at him.

"Zoë, please," Simon said. "You've been injured. I need to examine you."

Zoë was having none of it. "Answer two questions, doc,” she forced out, “and you can poke and prod all you like."

Simon sighed. But Zoë did not renew her efforts to sit up, so he counted it an acceptable impasse. "Go on."

"Why are we in the shuttle, and where're the captain and the others?"

"Wash?" Simon invited him to reply with a flick of his hand and reached for his medkit with the other. Zoë was exhibiting healthy cognition and awareness. Trying to bend her to his will would be a waste of time, and totally unnecessary. Not that he would succeed if he tried, anyway, he thought ruefully.

" _Serenity_ 's dead," Wash replied, gently stroking Zoë's shin, locking on her ankle every few sweeps. "We lost life support. Mal sent us out in the shuttles. He stayed on the ship. We put together a beacon, boosted its signal. And I rigged a call-back button, in case—"

Zoë interrupted him. "Turn the shuttle around." Her tone was implacable. "Now."

"Zoë, baby, _Serenity_ 's—"

"Now." There was nothing discernibly different in the way she said the word the second time, but Wash rose, his fingers lingering on the blanket covering her leg until it was out of his reach. "Yes, ma'am, boss woman," he said. His eyes said more, and they were full of love and respect. As he strode to the pilot's seat, he added, "Good to have you back, honey."

While the couple had been conversing, Simon had run through some basic health checks, including Zoë's pulse and respiration. He flicked a light across her eyes. Her lips were compressed and she was tense, her desire to knock him aside palpable. He held up his hand. "How many fingers?" he asked.

"Three."

He gently probed her ribs. She hissed and gave him a filthy look. "Tell me what you last remember." He continued his examination while she replied, flinching and panting as he discovered other areas of tenderness.

"There was a blast—? From the engine compartment. Kaylee—?" 

"Fine," Simon answered. "She's fine. You got her out of the way and took the brunt of it yourself." He drew the blanket up to her shoulders. "You've been unconscious for longer than I like, but other than a mild concussion and some deep bruising, you should be up for light duty in a couple of days." He didn't mention that her heart had stopped on _Serenity_ and he would want further tests. That was a battle he could fight later—if there was a later. 

Zoë's brows went up, her lips curving in an ironic smile. "A couple of days?"

Simon offered a wry shrug. "We're not dead yet." As he repacked his medical kit, Wash crabbed his way between the pilots' seats and the stretcher.

"She’s on autopilot. So—tell me. What are we doing, Zo?" Wash hunched beside her again. "Mal sent us out here for a reason. "We get back, and the ship's still dead, Mal won't thank you."

"If he's not already—" Simon began, but shut up at Zoë's ferocious glare. He went on straightforwardly, "The ship was already freezing when we left, and that was, what, an hour ago?"

"You shouldn't have left him alone." She turned that awful glare on Wash.

"He's the captain," Wash argued. "You wanted me to mutiny?"

Zoë sighed. She radiated anger and grief and pain. "He can be stubborn."

"I'm pretty sure Inara tried to talk him out of it," Wash said. "You know Mal."

"We can't just leave him there. By himself. That's wrong, Wash." She glanced out at their destination, hidden in the darkness outside the window. “How long?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Make it twenty.”

Wash smirked. “I lied. We’ll be there in twenty.” Before she could demand they go even faster, Wash held up a hand. “That’s as fast as this little thing can go.” He added plaintively, “You do know we’re going to burn through our fuel really quickly.” Zoë nodded. She didn’t look happy about it, but she didn’t suggest a change in speed. “So you know.” Wash picked up her hand and kissed it.

There was no room to spare unless they opened the cargo bay—which would only drain their resources more quickly—but Simon wanted to offer the illusion of privacy. He returned to the pilot's seat, and sank into it. For a while he pretended to read his encyclopedia, blindly flipping through images of trauma care. Eventually, his thoughts constantly interrupted by the need to glance at the time, he resumed his consideration of his sister. She was smiling delightedly at the wide, endless vista before her. So much nothing. And nothing about that view gave him any sense of security. If he let it, panic could easily creep in and leave him gibbering. 

It was silly, but on _Serenity_ he could pretend that he was protected by interior walls, living areas, great big bulkheads, even bigger, stronger outer hulls. Here—it was like being in a life raft compared to an ocean liner. So he took a kind of grim comfort in the thought of returning to the ship. Even though nothing would be changed. No one was coming to their rescue. Resolutely, he turned his mind away. At least, he consoled himself, River was free. Free of the government’s insane experiments and torture, and whatever they had been planning for her. She would die, they all would, but— 

River rocked forward in the co-pilot's seat."She's awake."

Simon looked round the back of his seat. Zoë was speaking softly with Wash, who was caressing her cheek. Simon said, "She woke up a while ago."

" _She's_ awake," River insisted and nodded at the window.

In the rapidly closing distance, Simon could make out a ball of light, small but rapidly growing. "Wash!"

"Hm?"

Simon motioned toward the window. Wash's eyes narrowed and he clambered abruptly to his feet. After a few seconds of intense study, he let out a husky curse. "She's not moving, but she's sure not dead." With a helpless shrug to signal his confusion, he awkwardly changed places with Simon. "Why didn't Mal—?"

"Wash," Zoë said with quiet urgency. "Where's my gun?"

Wash's brows climbed his forehead. "You want to shoot Mal?" He mock-cringed at the reproach in her frigid expression. "I don't—"

"Under the stretcher," Simon answered. "I found them in the extra towels and blankets. Thought they'd be safer there."

"Them?" Wash repeated, dragging the word out.

Crouching down, Simon reached under the stretcher and retrieved a towel-wrapped bundle. Within the folds were a single pistol and Zoë's shotgun. He handed the larger weapon to Zoë.

"Jayne?" Wash asked.

Zoë agreed, "Jayne." She began to struggle to sit up.

Simon immediately protested, a hand hovering above her shoulder. "We need you, Zoë. If you try to do too much, you may well lose consciousness again. You're our captain here." She gave Simon a withering look, obviously intending to ignore him again. But reason—and that wall of pain—must have prevailed, for she subsided, though with quite obvious reluctance. Simon, palms up, gestured his ignorance. "What are you thinking?" he asked. "About the ship. Why do you need your gun?"

She purposefully bent the entirety of her focus on the gun, paying him no mind. Once she had satisfied herself that it was loaded and ready for use, Zoë replied flatly, "Wash said Kaylee didn't have a replacement for the catalyzer. No way to get _Serenity_ working without it. Yet there she is, flying again."

"So, somehow, the engine is fixed," Simon said. "Meaning—?"

"It didn’t magically appear, Simon, that replacement catalyzer,” Wash answered him. “Someone had to’ve brought it. And then there had to be someone—maybe the same someone—who did the repairs." His tone was as unpromising as Zoë’s frown.

"There’s another ship, then?" Simon asked him. "Can you see another ship?"

"Nothing," Wash said. "Not now, anyway." He went on, "The shuttle doesn't have anything in the way of sophisticated sensors, though, so I won't be able to search for residual energy, the kind that might tell me what class of ship it was, or how long ago it was there. Not until I'm on _Serenity_."

Simon began to understand their uneasiness. "And the someone who repaired her might still be on the ship, that's what you're both thinking," Simon concluded.

With a growl Zoë rolled onto her side, "We need to get ready. I’m the only one who—“

"Who should use that weapon, yes," Simon agreed. "But you are suffering from a concussion. Which means your balance and reasoning are seriously impaired. You’re as likely to shoot one of us as an intruder."

Zoë said nothing. "That's not a happy thought," Wash observed.

"Do you know how to use that thing?" Simon asked him.

Wash scratched his head. "It's a gun. You pull the trigger. Right, honey?" His smile was a rictus. "You can give me the basics, right?"

A flash of helplessness crossed Zoë’s face. "Wash, help me to stand up."

Wash was clearly torn. He glanced up at Simon, who shook his head, and then out the window. _Serenity_ was now clearly visible, and growing larger with their approach, no longer the drifting hulk, but a living, viable vessel, awaiting their return. Simon couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so beautiful. "Not arguing, Zo. But I need to start docking procedures," Wash said.

Zoë bared her teeth. “Doc?”

"Zoë—" He bit off what could have been one of his better lectures, and knelt on one knee beside the stretcher. "I’m going to raise you into a sitting position. If you can tolerate that, I will help you to your feet. And then we’ll see. But I have to warn you: I’m only doing this because we’re minutes away from the infirmary. If you worsen your condition—"

“Right,” she snapped. “Got it.”

Simon arranged an arm under and behind Zoë's shoulders. "Hold on to me. Like that." When he felt that he had her properly supported, he said, "On three." She tensed within his hold, and a sheen of perspiration formed on her face. Simon, with a great deal of foreboding, began the countdown. On three he began to lift her as gently as he could, and she, with a magnificent display of will and strength, pulled herself upright. A small, tortured sound escaped from between her clenched teeth.

"Baby," Wash whispered.

Zoë choked back the cry. Caught deep in her throat, it turned into a growl, harsh and defiant. Simon held her as she tried to power through the pain. Even battered and bruised, she was astonishingly strong. In fact, he was surprised when she gasped, "I can't," and slumped forward. She clung to him, her head resting on his shoulder. 

"Zoë!" Wash moaned.

"I can't," she repeated. The indignity of failure, her resentment of it, were thick in her voice.

"I've got you,” Simon assured her. “Try to relax. Breathe." He held her as the pain ebbed and her breathing became less shallow and uneven. "Let me know when you're ready to lie back down." After a minute, perhaps two, he felt the tightness of her grip ease. "Okay, doc," she whispered. "Down would be good."

Bearing her weight all the way, he lowered her to the stretcher mat. Her skin tone had turned to ash and her face was screwed up in pain. He gently unhooked her arm from around his neck and set it along her side. "It's all right," he soothed her. "We'll manage, Zoë." He drew the blanket up to her collar bone, wiped the sweat from her face with a soft cloth, and then checked her pulse which was racing.

"Zoë?" Wash asked worriedly.

"You'll have to do it, Wash," she said, her voice hoarse. Her eyes were half-closed and it was clear that she was still combating a wave of pain. "You and Simon."

"It's okay, sweetie. Soon as we've landed, you can tell us what we need to know."

While Wash maneuvered the shuttle into its final approach, Simon continued his quick exam. His greatest fear was that a cracked rib had splintered and penetrated a lung. With only the most basic diagnostic tools at hand—his stethoscope and the patient's response to palpation—he provisionally decided that she had not done anything to worsen her condition. He gave her some tablets for the pain and supported her while she gulped them down, dry.

He was scarcely aware of the shuttle setting on its landing rails nor the jolt of slotting into its alcove, until he felt the difference in gravity as Wash shut down the engines and completed his post-flight procedures. "And we're home," Wash said, climbing out of the pilot's seat and trading places with Simon on the floor in front of his wife. "Honey?"

Eyes closed, she nodded. "Better." 

"What do I do?"

Listening with half an ear to their exchange, Simon went to sit opposite River again. Though she was facing the window, now partly obscured by the bulk of _Serenity_ 's hull, she seemed to be concentrating on something else, again, her head once more tilted in that odd pose. "River," Simon began. When she didn't seem to notice him, he leaned nearer and took her hands in his. Contact always seemed to help. Her hands were utterly limp but surprisingly warm. "River, Wash and I are going to make sure everything is all right inside. I want you to stay with Zoë and look after her, okay?"

Her head came up, so suddenly Simon startled, just a little. "Sleepy," she said, though she appeared to be contradictorily alert. Her gaze went inwards and a thin frown line appeared between her eyes. "So sleepy."

Simon said consolingly, "You'll have your room back soon. _Serenity_ ’s got power again. Everything will be all right."

His answer seemed to confuse her. She said, with some impatience, "Hurry."

He rubbed her hands between his. "All right. Stay with Zoë."

She echoed dutifully, "Stay with Zoë." She squeezed his hands back, hard. "Simon," she repeated, "hurry."

"I will." With a quick kiss on her forehead, he let her go. Wash rose from Zoë's side and turned toward Simon. He was holding the pistol low at his side, an almost apologetic expression in his eyes. "Zoë's keeping the shotgun," he said. "In case—" He glanced at the door.

"In case she needs it," Simon finished for him. He stooped to pick up his medical kit. "Ready."

Simon was relieved to see that Zoë's color had improved and her eyes were clear and sharp. She said, "Simon, see what you can make out through the window, then open the door. Slowly; not all the way. Keep clear. Imagine there's someone on the other side." When he nodded his understanding, she turned to Wash. "Be ready with the gun. Check under the catwalk right outside the door. If there's going to be an ambush, it will probably come from there."

"Ambush," Wash repeated. "That's a word I don’t like."

"Simon, let him go first. Follow his lead." Her dispassionate tone in no way disguised her fear for her husband—or him. "Once you’re clear—if you’re clear—check the cargo bay from the catwalk. Simon, you look left; Wash, right. Be each other's eyes." She said with extra emphasis, "Go slow." She tried to take a deep breath, flattening her lips when the pain jolted up again. She continued, her voice strained, "If the cargo bay is empty, your next checkpoint is the engine room. Someone had to be there. Plenty of places to hide. Try to be quiet. Be careful." She looked meaningfully at Wash, a combination of warning and question. He said, "Okay." She turned that same look on Simon. He nodded. “I understand.”

"Hurry," River said, so quietly she might have been speaking to herself. She was staring into nothing, and again seemed to be listening to something none of them could hear.

Wash said, "Simon?"

Simon held up a finger. "River, I need you to pay attention. When we leave, I'm going to close the door, but you need to lock it from the inside."

She met his eyes. "Yes," she said, and her expression conveyed her annoyance at his pedantic tone. "I will lock the door and I will stay with Zoë."

"Okay." Simon picked his way round the command seats and the stretcher. He covered the couple of feet to the main hatch with intense trepidation. Logically, he knew that anyone shooting at him through any of the tiny, but very very thick, hatch windows would fail to breach the glass. But fear of surprise roiled his insides. He felt a tiny sense of pride when he came abreast of the door and peeked out. His view was limited to part of the catwalk outside, the catwalk across the bay, which led to the other shuttle, and nothing else useful. Heart beating hard against his ribs, he worked the door release. He waited a beat, then pulled the heavy hatch open just wide enough to glance out and down. Wash stood on the other side of the opening, and Simon could sense the tension in him. They confirmed to each other with an abrupt shake of their heads that they had seen nothing. Simon drew the door wider, hazarded another quick look, increasing the scope of his vision—up, around, down. Again he silently consulted with Wash.

"Let's go," Wash said, his voice low and calm. Simon felt a surge of confidence. This was the man who piloted a spaceship, who regularly held their lives in his hands. He obviously didn't like being in this situation any more than Simon did, but he was meeting it with the same cool intellect and courage that characterized his piloting of _Serenity_.

Simon waited for Wash to exit, following almost too quickly. He had to lurch to a stop when Wash hesitated. Obedient to Zoë's instructions, he raked his gaze over the left side of the catwalk, the steps leading down, and over what he could see of the cargo bay floor. He felt horribly exposed. Though he saw no one, he imagined a person could be concealed at the opposite end of the catwalk, holding him in his sights.

He heard the door slide shut behind them, the chunk of metal as the locks engaged.

Wash indicated the stairs and, without waiting to see that Simon was following, started down. Again, Simon was right on his heels, eyes sweeping left and wide. Though—unlike River—he had no extra intuition, the ship felt empty to him. As if they were the only two people alive.

The temperature had come up in their absence, though it was still cool. There was oxygen again, too, enough that he had no trouble breathing, even in his state of stress. How long had it taken the ship to pump out adequate levels of oxygen and heat once the engine had restarted? More specifically, how long ago had the engine restarted?

They reached the midway stairs, leading down to the cargo bay. Out toward the front of it Simon caught sight of something dark and gleaming on the grating. "Wash," he said quietly, and pointed. Wash followed the line of his finger and grimaced. "Is that—?"

"Blood," Simon said, his voice very low. "That’s what it looks like from here." He raised his brows. "Hope I’m wrong, but I should check it."

Wash took a few seconds to survey the entire interior of the cargo bay. They would be completely vulnerable out there. Simon was about to speak again when Wash jerked his head in agreement.

They dashed across the bay floor, the sense of exposure magnified a thousand times. Simon understood then what it felt like to be hunted, the skin along his spine prickling in dread of something piercing his back. He dropped down beside the damp grating. It was blood. He knew that with certainty just by the smell rising off it, coppery and pungent. There must be even more of it, a lot more, beneath the grating for it to stink so strongly. And it was still coagulating. Dipping a finger into it, Simon took note of the hand print on the grate's metal frame. Someone had lain here, he thought, lost a lot of blood, then had used that hand to get back up. He tested the viscosity between finger and thumb. "It's fresh," he said, showing Wash his hand. "Within the last half hour."

"But whose?" Wash wondered, still turning uneasily in a tight circle.

"I think it's Mal's."

Wash's reaction was almost comical. "Mal's? How can you possibly tell?"

Simon exhaled shortly. "I can't. But Zoë said this was the best place to ambush us." Wiping his fingers off on the cargo bay floor, he took to his feet. "The engine is working, but Mal didn't call us back. If this is his blood, it's because he couldn't."

Wash made a face.

"We have to find him."

"Okay." Simon's logic was based on a paucity of information, but Wash didn't appear to disagree. "Engine room."

On the way, they found more signs of someone's passage, bloody hand- and fingerprints marking walls and overhead ducting. The engine room, and the engine itself, they discovered, was spattered and smeared with red.

"Where would he go?" Simon asked. Between the cargo bay and here, he had forgotten his fear. His rapidly growing concern for Mal had pushed it out. There was too much blood. The ship was painted with it.

"The bridge." They took off at a sprint, this time Simon leading the way, with Wash audibly grumbling behind him. Neither of them would ever confess to Zoë that they had ignored her instructions—presuming they weren't gunned down on the way.

But it was there on the bridge that they found Mal, collapsed on the floor, just inside the hatch. Simon lowered himself to Mal's side, and curled his fingers into the flesh alongside his windpipe, searching for a pulse.

Crouching beside him, Wash asked reluctantly, "Is he—?"

"Still alive," Simon breathed. "But barely." He shot a quick look around, spotted the discarded blanket draped over the pilot's seat. "Get me that. We can use it to lift him onto the stretcher, and keep him warm until you bring it back here." He was speaking as much to himself as to Wash, running his hands along Mal's skull, his neck, down his back, all the way to his feet.

Wash snaked round them and snatched the heavy wool blanket off the back of the chair. He snapped it out lengthwise and laid it on the floor beside Mal, facing Simon opposite him. Between them, they turned him onto his back and onto the blanket. The room was bright with the return of power, and shone unforgivingly on the gore drenching Mal's shirt front, the streaks of it on his face. Simon peeled the stiffening fabric away to expose the wound. "I appreciate your falling on your fist, captain," Simon muttered. "Nice emergency wound compression." He reached into his bag for gauze. While tearing the packet open, he said, "Wash, I need the stretcher."

"Right." Wash jumped up and grabbed the handspeaker. "Zoë, we've found the captain. He's hurt."

"Gunshot," Simon muttered.

"Somebody shot him," Wash said. "I'm coming to get the stretcher. River, please put some blankets on the floor next to my wife, so we can lay her on it. I'll be there in under a minute." He hooked the mic on its mount and started to step past Simon—then staggered a little as he reached back to slap his hand against the red button at the end of the console. A second later he was gone in a tattoo of feet running down the gangway.

Simon unspooled a handful of gauze, pinched it into a plug and forced it into the gunshot wound. He was grateful that the captain was unconscious, as he would undoubtedly have objected. Loudly. He cut Mal's shirt and trousers open and performed a cursory exam as he went. Mal was clammy and pale, his heart beating high and fluttery. At least, with his fist pressed against the wound and held there by his weight, the bleeding had been temporarily contained. The gauze packing would slow the hemorrhaging, but the exposed end of the dressing was already starting to redden. Simon applied another compress over the plug and strapped it down with tape. Then he folded the sides of the blanket around the captain and settled in to wait.

Not even five full minutes passed before footsteps charged toward the bridge. Simon closed up his medkit and rose to his feet. Wash and River crowded onto the deck a few seconds later, lowering the stretcher to the floor alongside Mal. "River," Simon directed, "please hold the captain's head. Wash, you take that side. We'll lift the blanket together and carefully put him onto the stretcher. All right?"

Panting softly, Wash said, "Right."

"And up," Simon said, eyeing both of his assistants as they hefted Mal up and over onto the stretcher. River gently rested his head onto the pillow. Simon held her gaze. "Go to the infirmary. Turn on the lights. Make sure the heat is turned up in there, too. If you can find them, I've got some dry-pack blood components. I'll need to reconstitute them."

She bobbed her head and took off at a run, the racket of her boots fading within seconds. Simon wedged his kit between Mal's feet and took the end of the stretcher nearest the stair while Wash took the other end. They went carefully down the few steps to the crew quarters level; managed a modified run to the steps leading to the kitchen/dining area, still in a state of disarray; then navigated the remaining distance to the hatch that went down to the passenger common area, with the infirmary blessedly just beyond. River was waiting beside the examination table, the room glaringly bright. She had turned on every light source in the room. Simon even noticed that the green light on the rapid reconstitution unit was lit. The dry-pack disks lay on the counter beside it.

He threw off his coat, wishing he had thought of it earlier, briefly aware that he was sweating. Between the three of them, they transferred Mal to the exam table with a minimum of jostling. Simon had started speaking before they'd finished settling the captain. "Wash, drink a large glass of water. You and River take the stretcher and bring Zoë back here. Lay her on the fold-out bed." He flung a finger toward the back-up exam table. "Then drink another glass of water, Wash, and use the toilet or whatever you need to do—"

Wash objected, "Simon, what the hell?"

Simon blinked. He had been intent on gathering the necessary instruments to set up an IV, which, with Mal’s critically low blood pressure, wasn't going to be easy. Without looking up from his task, he replied simply, "Mal's going to need your blood." He wiped down the inside of Mal's elbow with an alcohol prep and positioned his scalpel. "You're the closest match among the crew." He began to draw the edge of the blade across Mal’s skin.

"Oh," Wash said, sounding a little squeamish. "Okay." Simon dismissed them both from his mind before they left the room, his entire focus fixed on the task at hand.

By the time they returned, Simon had set up Mal's IV, and thanks to River's earlier assistance, had already started transfusing crucial blood components. Without a dedicated aide, he was also having to run back and forth for additional instruments and supplies, while engaging in delicate and meticulous procedures. Despite this, he had managed to quickly and efficiently remove Mal’s clothing, hook him up to various scanners, swab the wound and the surrounding area with antiseptic, and set up sterile draping, all while monitoring Mal's vitals. On Osiris, he would have had an entire staff to assist. Here, now, he had to do everything himself. His was a methodical mind, however, and through previous experience on _Serenity_ , he had learned to adapt. He just hoped that what he was doing, with what was available, would be enough.

"Doc, how is he?"

Simon spared a glance at the owner of that voice and met Zoë's eyes. There had been movement around him for a while, hushed voices and the quiet clatter of equipment. Her question came at a good time, however, in the moment between ending one procedure and beginning another. Wash was sitting on a low chair on the other side of the exam table, holding Zoë’s hand where she lay on the back-up bed. River stood just outside the door, watching. "I can't say for sure just yet," Simon replied, choosing his words with care. "But so far so good?"

Someone had cleaned up around him, so adroitly he had not noticed. Mal’s soiled things and the many bloodied towels and emptied packets and vials, excess tubing, even the coat he had thrown on the floor, had been collected and removed. After a cursory scan of the most important displays, Simon at last prepped Wash's arm. Once his blood began to flow, Simon immediately switched his attention to the gunshot wound. 

It turned out to be fairly uncomplicated, something he had not dared hope for. After administering a combination of drugs, with the use of the primary scanner he located the bullet that had luckily lodged between a couple of ribs. Simon removed the bullet—even more luckily intact, flushed out the wound, and packed it with antiseptic powder. After that, fully aware of Mal’s contrarian attitude toward convalescence, he laid down an excessive number of stitches, over which he applied a clean dressing secured with a wide band of tape. 

He was vaguely aware that at some point Inara had come in, only really noticing her when she asked permission to clean the blood off Mal’s face and hands. He was happy to give it, this something he had not yet had time to attend to. There were other voices, respectfully quiet, engaged in low conversations that ebbed and flowed. Everyone was home, waiting for news outside the hatch. Satisfied with Mal’s slowly rising color and steadily encouraging readouts, Simon removed monitoring equipment no longer essential to his needs. Careful of Mal's modesty, he replaced the surgical drapes with a warmed, lightweight blanket. And at last, he straightened up and stretched a little to loosen the tension in his back.

Several pairs of eyes watched him anxiously. He gave them a reassuring nod. There was no need to go into specifics. They had to have seen the same ghoulish traces of his injury throughout the interior of the ship. But they also expected Mal to recover from anything. Having gotten to him so quickly, Simon was hopeful that he would recover from this as well.

Only a couple of hours had passed since they had found Mal on the floor of the bridge. Then, Simon would not have predicted the progress they would make in two hours. Now, he felt both relieved and optimistic. It would be weeks, rather than days, before Mal was one hundred percent, but Simon knew that it was in his nature to take that as a challenge. A change in the reading on the heart monitor informed him that Mal was beginning to surface. He filled a syringe with a sedative-analgesic combination and was preparing to inject it into Mal's line, when he heard Zoë say, “Welcome back, sir.”

Mal had regained consciousness.

* * * 

Late in the evening, Simon came through the hatch into the passenger common area. He carried a mug full of warm tea and stepped carefully not to spill it. It was six days since the port catalyzer coil had blown. In those six days, Zoë had recovered well enough to return to duty. She took care of captaining _Serenity_ while Mal was restricted at first to the infirmary and then, after a couple of days filled with snores and complaints, to one of the spare passenger bunks. Because he could not bring himself into a sitting position (nor recline after attaining one) without risking his stitches and stabbing pain, he had to wait for assistance. That did not please nor suit him. Which was why, on this sixth day, he had been allowed to sit on the sofa in the common area, where, between being felled by stealthy naps, he entertained fellow crew members and they, him.

He was half reclining on the sofa now, dozing, his head propped against the wall, legs spread wide, forearms limp on his thighs. Across from him, Book folded his Bible shut, murmuring Simon's name in greeting. He stood and tipped his head toward the passenger compartments. "Thanks, Shepherd," Simon whispered. As Book walked silently away, Simon regarded Mal thoughtfully. Very quietly, he said, "Captain."

Mal's snore broke into a half snort and he awoke all at once, eyes wide but unseeing. He said, with strange clarity, "What?"

"I brought you some tea," Simon said.

"Oh." Mal let his eyes close, opened them a second later, and rubbed his face hard with his open palm. "Tea. Good. Thanks." He drifted away again.

Simon placed the mug in Mal's hand. Mal's fingers closed reflexively around it, but Simon continued to hold it for fear the captain would tip its contents into his lap. "Captain?"

Once more Mal's eyes shot open. "Right. Tea." He took in a full breath, and abruptly stopped breathing. His ribs and the wound itself would be very tender for some days to come. He exhaled gently. Mal raised the mug to his lips, and Simon let his hand fall away, watching closely for an additional moment. And then he sank into the high-backed chair recently vacated by Book. He sprawled a little, too, bone tired and longing for his bed. He had slept little in the previous six days, and the deficit was starting to tell. 

"Mm," Mal said. "Nice." With an appearance of sleepy contentment, he said, "You're looking knackered, doc."

Simon acknowledged this with a wan smile. "Been a busy few days."

Mal stared down into the mug. "It has. Seen you helping out with clean-up when you haven't been tending to me or Zoë."

"Pretty much done now," Simon said. While the others had spent hours re-securing dislodged equipment and stores, or repairing equipment and materials that were damaged in the blast and subsequent venting of fire from the engine room, he had directed his efforts to the clean-up of the infirmary. He had also taken it upon himself to remove and disinfect Mal's blood trail throughout the ship. That had been a thoroughly unpleasant undertaking, especially when he dealt with the access area in the cargo bay, that section below the grating where Mal had been shot. The amount of accumulated blood was quite awful—not offensive or repulsive, of course; he had seen worse—just mind-numbing in the sheer quantity of it. And it made him respect yet again Mal's dogged determination to repair the ship while rapidly bleeding out. After that was done, Simon had helped out where and when he could, even though all he had wanted to do was fall asleep.

Mal's voice brought Simon back from his thoughts. "How long before this knocks me out?"

"About half an hour." Simon started to pull himself upright. "Would you like some help to your temporary quarters?"

A resigned smile flickered across Mal's lips. "Not just yet. You got a minute?"

"At least thirty of them." Simon slumped back in the chair. He did not dare close his eyes for more than a long blink or he would be gone.

"Good. You see, in between all of this hectic lying about and snoozing, I've been doing some thinking."

"About?"

"About what happened on Shuttle Two." Mal took a long draught of tea, and studied Simon over the rim.

Simon, confused, met his gaze. "You sent us out. Zoë woke up. We came back."

"Well, now, that's what everyone tells me, including Wash and Zoë."

Simon was too tired to be astonished, but he was mildly taken aback. "You don't believe us?"

"No, I do," Mal said at once. "But I think maybe there's something none of you are saying."

"Like what?" Simon asked. "That we stopped for ice cream on the way back and you didn't get any?"

Mal just stared. Then the idea seemed to tickle him. "I for sure would have been peeved," he said, "if you had done that."

Simon laughed out loud. "Then, what?"

Mal sighed. "I checked the shuttle's logs. Curious thing—it appears that you headed back a couple of minutes after I was shot."

"We did?" His brain belatedly registered exactly what Mal was telling him. "How on earth could you know that? The time, I mean. I would've thought your attention was focused on more important things just then."

"I was aware of it all the while you and the others were gone."

"But—why?"

"The shuttles have a range, doc. I knew to the last minute how far they could go, at the speed I'd recommended, before I couldn't call 'em back."

Simon felt a gripping sensation in his chest. He thought briefly of his father, who had worried more about his social status than his only daughter's well being. And here was Mal telling him that his first thought upon being shot was how far out the shuttles had strayed, and whether he could bring them home. "Oh."

Mal started to lean forward, saying, "Here's the thing—" He froze. "Ow." He carefully rested back again, and breathed delicately for a minute. "Here's the thing, Simon," he continued at last. "You all deciding to turn around just then was uncanny fine timing."

They stared at each other. Finally Simon said, "What are you really saying … or asking? If, that is, you are saying or asking something."

Mal drained his mug. He lowered it to his lap and held it laxly between both hands. "Little sister—she have anything to do with that decision?"

Simon's eyes widened. "Like what?"

"Something woke Zoë up."

"Why would you think River was involved? She was nowhere near her."

"Maybe because I don't believe in coincidences, doc. And your sister—well, she is a rare one."

Simon felt heat flood his face. He should have left Mal to sleep on the sofa. He started to reply smartly, "Well, of course, she didn't—" but broke off as memory washed over him, a memory that until this instant he had completely forgotten. So much had happened since then. And, thinking on it now, he realized that perhaps he had not wanted to remember it at all. He muttered, "What you're suggesting is crazy."

With maddening persistence, Mal invited, "And what's that? What am I suggesting?"

Simon scowled hard at him. Then he sighed and slumped deeper into the chair. "That somehow she knew that you'd been injured. And somehow she made Zoë wake up."

"And I do believe that you just remembered something 'bout that, but you don't want to talk about it."

"Because it's crazy."

"This is your sister we're talking about."

Simon's scowl deepened.

"What happened, Simon? What you just remembered. I'd like to know." Mal's voice was growing softer and he was breathing more slowly and deeply. If Simon held him off long enough, Mal would probably fall asleep where he sat. And given the mix of drugs he had just swallowed, he might remember none of this conversation come the morning.

But— Simon raised his hands, let them fall onto his legs. "Nothing. River … was looking out at the stars." That blackness had seemed so very, very close. Simon saw her hand pressed to her side—in the corresponding location where Mal had taken a bullet. Her face as she gazed down at it, perplexed. He considered now what the cause of that phantom response might have been. What it couldn't possibly have been. But he didn't need to share that with Mal. What he had to say, what he would concede, was inexplicable enough. He spoke in a flat voice. "Out of the blue, she looked at Zoë and said, 'wake up,'" He rolled his eyes. "But Zoë could not have heard her. River didn't say it out loud; she whispered it. I was right next to her and I barely heard her." He spread his hands for emphasis. "It wasn't even a whisper."

"And yet Zoë woke up. At that moment," Mal murmured.

"Yes." Simon made a dismissive face. "But she was due to wake up. Overdue. It must've been a coincidence, captain." 

Mal, his eyelids drooping, shifted his brows in a kind of shrug. "Maybe. But I think you and I both know better. And I think there's more you're not telling me."

Simon stirred uncomfortably. "What do you think we know? That River sensed—or felt—your pain when you were shot? From hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away? And she somehow used her brain to make Zoë conscious? That's just crazy," Simon said.

"Yeah, maybe. And—just so you know—that's the third time you've used the word 'crazy.'"

Rolling his eyes again, Simon tried another tack. "What does Zoë say?"

Mal chuckled, but carefully. "She said she doesn't remember, and she doesn't want to talk about it. In that order."

"Oh." For the first time since the beginning of this conversation, Simon felt a slight lessening of tension. "So—this isn't an excuse to put us off the ship?"

It was Mal's turn to appear bemused. "I don't know how you jumped to that conclusion, Simon. More like, if it's true—and I'll grant you there are a lot of probably-nots and a whole bunch of I'm-on-drugs and thinking is an adventure just now—but if it's true, I owe her my life. And so do you and the rest of the crew."

Simon breathed a little easier.

Mal's gaze shifted past Simon and he smiled lazily. "Hey, troublemaker."

A hand came down on Simon's shoulder. River sidled around to stand beside him. "You drugged the captain," she marveled.

"Little bit," Simon agreed with the ghost of a grin.

Her eyes warm on Mal, River asked, "Need help?"

"Always," Mal said.

Simon rose, gave in to a huge yawn, and shook himself fully awake. "Ready?" he asked, taking the mug out of Mal's hands and putting it on the table.

"As ever," Mal said. He grudgingly accepted Siimon's wrist-locked grip and chewed a groan as he was drawn to his feet. Simon gave him a moment to compose himself, almost fully supporting the other man while lightheadness and pain receded.

"You take his other side, River," Simon said, and she moved at once to slip under Mal's shoulder. Between them they kept him upright as he shuffled to the cabin next to River's. There, she waited until Simon had a firm grip on Mal's arm, then ducked out when he began to guide Mal onto the bunk. "I'd like to examine the wound," Simon said deferentially.

Mal, pale, waved a hand. "Fine. Tha' was some damn good stuff, what you put in m' tea. 'M really sleepy."

Mal's words and the tone of his voice jarred yet another unwelcome memory loose. They had been docking with _Serenity_ , and River had said, _"Sleepy. So sleepy,"_ and then, _"Hurry."_

Mal, frowning loopily, responded to something in Simon's expression. "Wha'?"

Simon forced a smile. "Nothing. Just a thought." He raised the lower edge of the soft shirt Mal was wearing—on loan from Jayne—and peeled the dressing open. The wound was starting to weave together within its stitched restraints. Nothing abnormal was seeping from it, and the area was not overly warm to the touch. Pleased, Simon tidied the dressing and drew the shirt back down. As he pulled the bedclothes up to Mal's chest, he said, "It's looking good." Almost asleep, Mal nodded. "Anything else you need, captain?" Simon asked quietly.

Rousing a little, Mal said, "I could do with a—" Just then River appeared in the doorway, holding a small glass with an articulated straw already bent into position for his use. Simon passed it to Mal. "Why, thank you, little one," Mal mumbled.

Smiling sweetly back at him, River said, "You'd've done the same." She gave Simon a quick nod and swung away, into the hall. He heard the door to her cabin open and close.

When he turned back, he found Mal staring, narrow-eyed, at the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Captain?"

Mal carefully set the cup onto the tiny makeshift bedside table. "Nothing," he said, his voice light, off-hand—but there was a glint in his eyes as he gave Simon a pointed look. "Just a thought."

Simon accepted the rebuke, if that's what it was. "Right," he said, and backed away. "If you need anything, just call out. I should hear you." 

But Mal had closed his eyes and appeared to be already asleep. Simon unthinkingly counted respirations as the bedclothes rose and fell over his chest. Before heading to the door, he dialed down the light until it verged on the darkest end of twilight. If Mal woke, he would know where he was; and if Simon had to assist him, he wouldn't fall over his own feet in the dark getting to him. Quietly, he pulled the door towards the frame, leaving it open a few inches.

He stood briefly outside his own room, directly opposite River's. Through the thin walls he could hear her mumbling something, though she spoke too faintly to be understood. He could ask her why she had said those words, the ones that had very obviously meant something to Mal, as well. But, exhausted and in dire need of sleep himself, Simon chose instead to retire to his room. He would ask her tomorrow. Maybe.

A few minutes later, stretched out on his own mattress, he willed his muscles to uncoil and tried to calm the riot in his head. Sleep, which should have dragged him under in an instant, hovered just out of reach. His thoughts were in turmoil, the captain's questions pressing hard against walls he had to rebuild daily. Of course he knew that River had abilities that were not "normal." What he liked to think of as remarkable intuition was—okay—in all likelihood something a little more than that. But then she had always been exceptional.

He supposed, as Zoë was regaining consciousness, she could somehow have touched River's mind. If that were the case, then, possibly, River had responded by encouraging her to wake up. He could believe that. Though—and he couldn't help a small niggling doubt: why hadn't River spoken more forcefully? He raked his hands through his hair, gritted his teeth. Because it hadn't been necessary? Because her voice had been loud where it counted—inside Zoë's mind? But that was crazy. Crazier still was the ridiculous notion that somehow she had sensed Mal's desperate need across a vast distance—hundreds of miles, a thousand miles away. That was just not possible. He rolled onto his side, arms crossed over his chest. No, it was only a coincidence, all of it.

But if—he groaned inwardly—if River actually apprehended other people's thoughts, knew what they were thinking at any given moment, what must it be like for her? Most minds were not disciplined, constantly distracted by a myriad of things all day long, regularly derailed by the smallest whim, desire, or emotion. Not to mention the churning madness of dreams. How could she—?

A soft voice said, _Hush_. In the darkness, he turned his head to look at the door. It stood half-open so that he could hear Mal if he awoke in the night. But that had not been Mal's voice. It had seemed to come from— _Hush_. As he continued to gaze sleepily at that shadowy opening, his eyelids grew heavy and his mind calmed. Puzzled, but too exhausted to resist that gentle command, Simon felt himself relax completely. _Hush_ , the voice said.

And Simon slept.

End


End file.
